They speak of peace, those frauds with their frozen gaze,
yet their filthy hands worship oil and clotted blood.
They send the children of the proletariat to shatter in the trenches of their greed,
while they pop champagne behind gilded walls.
No reconciliation erases the stench of mass graves.
The justice they promise is a coffin lined with zinc.
The peace they preach is nothing but a rigged bargain,
a pact disguised beneath the tatters of humanity.
Weapons do not rise for fraternity,
they devour lungs, they rip open entrails,
and the corpses thrown into the mud
beget centuries of hatred demanding vengeance.
There will be no hands reaching across barbed wire,
there will be no pardon etched in the darkness of tenebrous passions.
Only memory, like a naked blade,
piercing through the lies of condescending peacemakers.
War is their empire, and they will yield nothing.
We are compelled to smash their thrones, to burn the relics of their arrogance,
so they may finally taste the karmic feast they have served us
through centuries of organized assassinations.
Apropos of John H. Doe
A name we all know
Just like Uncle Sam
~ He too’s on the lam
____________________
'Critics Corner'
(A random sample of published reviews):
"Subtly implicative, bigly"
~ Barron and Donald J. Trump, in unison
"Emasculatory Triumph!!"
~ 'Fannie Femdom'
"Lumpen Proletariat Barfola"
~ Karl and Groucho Marx
"Aso. Learry Derightfur Liting:"
~ Shohei Ohtani, (through an interpreter)
"Yes, it IS poetry. So that means it's, well, a poem, written -- by a poet."
~ Kamala Harris, responding to a hardball question from Oprah W.
"I fell asleep reading this... twice."
~ Joseph Robinette Biden
nine to five pressures
eat me whole ~ leviathan ~
lost in its stink soul
What are you looking at baby?
I see the potato and pumpkin
rice making from grain
I see the proletariat
spending night in rockey plain.
I see dogs and the cows
too many in the field,
monkeys up on the tin roof
so many of games they yield.
I see the bottom of the water
There I see the frog and fish
When it rains, canals and banks sounds
ghangarghang ghangarghang, like this.
I see books and piles of notebooks
mom rebuke me each and every day,
the country where no pressure of lession,
where it is can you say?
I will go to that country
with the wheel and my kite,
I willl take the spinner and the rope
I would like to play there, alright!
The naked truth sprinkles holy water
at curfew hours with touch of morbidity.
I'm on the brink of shortages -- of food and faith,
parading before my eyes the endless stream of bodies
dispatched to crematorium and the more summary procedure of
temporary burials in city parks!
Suddenly the bright idea of a volley of oaths
takes center stage, the winged angels of death
plucking up inequality and the monopoly of
the privileged, striking rich and poor with the
same perverse velocity, a great equalizer rejoicing
Karl Marx in his grave. The proletariat of virus
turning up its fury in shanty towns and
castles like an unstoppable killer with the watchman
sleep at the wheel. It cannot proliferate without our
internal polarization.
Victims of coronavirus unite, throw away the chains
of dogmatism, embrace the contagion's challenge of
human solidarity, across the great divide of
capitalist exploitation and greed breeding
ineptitude and designed failure bespeaking a
great betrayal.
The weather cool and refreshing,
Spring is awakening slowly.
The walks postponed for a while,
Until the weather is dreamy warm.
The buds on the trees will appear slowly,
Unfolding and revealing their true shape and color.
The flowers on the the magnolia tree can be seen,
Blossoming and beautiful on our parents lawn.
Many beautiful days there,
The crocuses and lilies sprout through the snow.
The beautiful house surrounded by spring,
A picture of happiness with our relatives.
Birds can be heard chirping and delighting us with their presence,
The cardinal and the blue jay could be seen.
Spring comes every year, a season to look forward to,
Kites fly in the sky on a windy day.
Roller skaters can be seen,
Weaving in and out of the proletariat.
When the weather is warmer,
Picinics with parents and children can be seen.
God blesses us with this season,
Each year and I am truly thankful.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
If my desire would be fulfilled
I would not asking for a lot of wealth for me
rather I would like to ask for plenty of happiness
those who are the proletariat for thee.
to put them up on the royal palace
filled with love and compassion
in free.
No one would cry in the dreamland of mine
no one would be unemployed, engage work, living fine.
forgetting divisions low and high they would fly
mutual in affection they and thy.
observing such a country, all the world
will getting surprise.
The whole world can be loved
proletariat those who are crying
in the streets and the lane
with a broad and liberal mind.
people those who are helpless and feeble
starving and not been able
those who living in rotten food of dustbin
accompanied with the street dog
love could go towards them.
Those who are spoiled, lost their luster
in lanes and lanes of the city
they could be taken into heart
in the nest of the humanity.
Blessed is not love; where I got astonished
Love is hard to repeat;
humanity where loose and
defeat.
They shot anything that moved,
anything filthy and poor.
Down with the proletariat!
The Prussians played cards
and praised red French wine.
They passed round the Vodka,
The Russians played cards.
Down with the aristocrat!
Lambast the filthy rich.
They shot anything that moved.
In the land of the free and home of the brave
Here I sit a bit of a nave
Babies in cages on the southern tier
Those with power nary a tear
Children is their class room mowed down
AK -47's sold all over town
The globe on fire the Amazon burns
No notice as the world turns
Hurricanes and floods batter the shore line
In the swamp every things fine
Politicians cheat lie and steal
Pigs at the trough never getting their fill
The Proletariat bows and cry out for alms
They are building a wall to keep them calm
No money to educate the masses
But plenty for war in made up crisis
No leaders to lead in the home of the brave
How could I be so much the nave
she said he was a hoffknocka
a proletariat sort of peasant.
more so a woff doff casscul
a simon descendant of peasantry
he found comfort in poverty.
she refused to help him:
her brother whom
she loved as a child: but she
found it easy to walk on him
as an adult.
those whom you love
they all love me.
they despise you
they look to their world and hate
the fact fact that you are in it.
she makes him suffer
and has made his labor harder
she stands among those
who wishes him to be poor
that it's easier from her position
she sings dew-lay-mi in the night
might those who are in different to her
find comfort in helping him
endearing these positions
to generate nexting
from a new veiw
might he become n Ellitistic person from his
new found comfort
build
enbolden
and to empower
I like to read about her majesty Queen Elizabeth and his highness Prince Phillip,
They are our favorite Queen and Prince.
They lead model lives and are very fashionable,
Their estates are exclusive and enhanced.
Buckingham palace is a favorite residence,
Decorated lavishly by the decorators with exquisite paintings and furniture.
What a beautiful lifestyle they have.
I like to visit with them and see what is happening.
Her majesty's fashions are revered with the beautiful hats.
She walks with her husband Prince Phillip .
The beautiful days they have with their neighbors and friends,
Her majesty always walks with her corgis.
Queen Elizabeth is very diversified meeting politicians and royalty from different countries,
She excercises diplomacy and kindness with her proletariat.
I am a real fan and I like to read about them,
This is a coveted hobby that I cherish.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
Another wave of voter vexation
is swamping the shutdown nation
To the left,
the windpipes are hissing
To the right,
the windbags are dissing
And all of the kitchen cabinet aprons
got their middle fingers
pointing up deaf adder listening
Their thumbs down
is the ballot death blow sign:
Telling the weathervane citizens,
the rainy day
slush fund money is missing
The proletariat are up in arms,
so voter vexed ... they’re getting no paychecks
When the last mint cookie crumble,
the murmurers
are gonna misty-eye mumble
The viper sound bytes
are cobra kissing —
Blowing inherit-the-wind
lipstick jinn wishes
Getaway stage right poll exit
says last count call:
the vault money is missing
The proletariat are up in arms,
so voter vexed ... they’re getting no paychecks
To the right,
the windpipes are bursting
To the left,
the windbags are cursing
And all of the kitchen cabinet aprons
got their middle fingers
pointing up to the empty cookie jar
As the latest patriotic wave of voter vexation
is giving wet back hex to a grumbling nation
And the whether vain citizens don’t know which way to turn
Why is so much sadness in human life?
Someone eats rich foods,
Some of them are starving,
It seems they are inactive.
No, neither they are inactive,
Nay, they are not losers and ill fated.
The rich people are responsible for that,
They do not have any kind of compassion for the poor.
Everyone just can understand their hunger,
If others do not eat and drink,
Nothing touches their heart,
They say, 'Let everyone be proletariat'
There are lots of crisis around us,
No one keeps that news,
All the richest people are busy to steal the treasure of the poor,
Actually we are all selfish.
I sit and reminisce about the "good ol' days"
The prelapsarian time before it all went sideways
The details of life were all that I saw
There was no rich, no poor, no petit bourgeois
As an unbeknownst member of the proletariat
I was in a state of semi-permanent merriment
"Class" was not realized until I moved north
And learned a simulacrum of poverty thenceforth
Then I get nostalgic for the radical breakthroughs
And the molting of all my sophomoric residues
I remember when I thought I could see
The world as it is in one, singular, reality
I was sure I had glimpsed some recondite apparatus
Guided by Providence and limitless afflatus
Now I know how naïve I was on both counts
That experience and wisdom are paramount
I look at life through a clear, antiseptic lens
And take a grain of salt with all my realizations
I don't mistake ardor or fervor for absolute truth
I don't swim around in the fountain of youth
I remember the past fondly and store it away
But focus my effort and gravitas on what I can do today
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